Angel’s Trumpet

He wilts in the shadows,
I run from the sun,
Angel Trumpet blooms only under the moon.

I heard many, as a child declare,
“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!”

Like the other woman who bought me so many,
syrupy, red-cherried Manhattan’s at the speak-easy bar,
a grotto I understood she beckoned me into,
the halcyon images of our just out of reach daddies,
to be found somewhere in the back of swaying caves.

I wanted to hold her hand, but I couldn’t drink that much.

The fuzzed leaves of African violet yellow under regular watering’s,
the regal purple type-strikes, glows an ethereal, under-toned, azure skies,
when left to dry, the Seraphim flower.

Photo Credit: Lex Sirikiat/unsplash